


The Same Color

by bible



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic)
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The commoner's blood is the same color as the noble's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Color

When Daken open the door to Lester’s room, he found him on the bed. He lay on his back, his head low in the middle of the mattress. His eyes were closed, and he was naked. His forearm was slung over his chest. Nothing moved except the whirring fan and his chest rising and falling with emulating breaths. Outside, it rained. It was early afternoon. The face of the buildings adjacent to the tower reflected nothing but the sky, like a child had colored in rectangles with a gray marker. The sheets strewn and pressed over the bed were still tucked in at the edges. He had promptly stripped and crashed. Funnier enough: Lester did not snore.

Daken stepped closer.

On further inspection, water clung to his body. Droplets stuck to the veins in his forearms and slid down his wrist. Balanced on the ridge of his scar. He smelled like mountains and an expensive cologne. His after-shave, maybe. Like exhaustion and something still stirring and alive, slowly being succumbed and swallowed whole by fatigue. Something like instinct.

Daken crawled onto the bed with his palms and knees. Lester blinked his eyes open and stared at him. Daken cocked his head and stared back. He had just fallen asleep, he acknowledged. His eyes were not bleary just yet, but heavy with debilitation. He had noted his nice eyelashes and iris hue from the start. His gaze was readable in the colorful blue and the widening of pupils.

Neither of them said anything for a while. Lester turned on his side, away from Daken. His spine showed through his rough skin. It seemed delicate, sheltered in by the muscles of his back, like Daken could trace it with his index, and it might break. He curled an arm over his head and went back to sleep. Daken toed off his expensive shoes and curled up behind Lester. He placed a hand on his bicep and ran his fingers through his mostly-wet body. He had not bothered to towel-dry. 

Daken fit his nose into Lester’s neck and smelled. His pulse was normal; he did not fear Daken. Nor was he suspicious. 

Lester could read Daken when he wasn’t releasing his steady wave of pheromones. He had figured him out. Remembered what he had barked at him days prior.

 _You’re just as pitiful as the rest of us, if not more. You want to die so bad, but you_ can’t _. You are a strange masochistic druggie with mommy issues so bad they make Casey Anthony seem like someone to speculate and glorify. You are just another sac of organs and blood, only with a prettier face than most and a famous daddy. You ruin yourself and manipulate others so you can fill yourself with this fake joy that you pretend to gain from someone else’s pain. But you’re not like me. You don’t actually like to rip open flesh because you act as though you’re an insightful, eloquent killer. But I’m here to tell you there’s no such thing. Deaths are not measured in style of killing, the final verdict is measured in body count, and I, for one, will catalog my success through numbers, not try to piece together some death-ballet you try to do. You are an arrogant shit with a shocking lack of self-awareness. No one will follow you because you’re as weak and psychotic as everyone else on this fake team is_.

After that, Daken had tried to strangle him. They fought, and then they fucked and used blood as lube.

What Daken knew:

Lester did not want to die.  
Lester was sure Daken wouldn’t kill him, wrapped around his back with lethal weapons grafted to his forearms.  
He was exhausted.   
Daken would not kill Lester.

What he also knew:

He  _was_  wildly arrogant. He  _was_  selfish and holier-than-thou, but for good reason. Lester liked to claim that no one would follow him, but he was talented. He was born gifted and beautiful, and he was rich and strong. He was what everyone wanted in a child. And no matter how much Lester might urge that he may only be depressed and longing for a father, his life retained loquacity, and he could manipulate it to his will with but a grin at the right people. Family matters, while defining of history, could be set aside for his life of fluency and luxury. He was useful. He was powerful. And he did not try. 

He smelled his neck again. Lester smelled good. He kissed his mouth after ten minutes, when he slept. He tasted good too. He ran his hands over his neck, his collarbones, his shoulders. Wrapped his legs around Lester’s and kissed the back of his head. Touched him. After forty minutes, he was hard in his designer jeans. Lester’s skin was cool to the touch. He smelled like mint, slept beautifully, appeared as a virgin. 

An hour, the rain fell harder. Thunder cracked close, and the precipitation pelted the window harder, louder. Lester woke up and grabbed Daken’s hand that was rubbing up and down his side. He rolled onto his back. 

Looking at Daken with cacographic eyes, expression empty and brows pulled low, he sat up. He cupped the back of Daken’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. It was single, close-mouthed. Daken smelled his irritation, but under that, urge.

He unbuttoned Daken’s shirt and pulled off his pants and underwear, and made him lay down. Lester straddled him and leaned over. He blew over Daken’s wet mouth and huffed a dry laugh when Daken’s tongue peeked out to run over his upper lip. The corners of his lips were quirked up.

They kissed again and Lester’s hand slid under his pillows blindly, searching.

They broke apart, and Daken almost grabbed the back of his head to pull him down once more. 

Bullseye presented a razor blade from inside his pillow case. Daken’s skin was warm. Lester brought it down over his jaw and Daken, compliant, turned his head with the drag of the razor, breath coming short and fast. They made eye contact. Lester’s pupils were blown wide, his grin wicked. Daken smirked.  _Oh, Lester._ _Who bathes his hands in blood will have to wash them with tears_. He pulled away and watched the blood bead up, then the skin close. Lester hummed at the fresh pelt and licked where he had cut like an appreciative dog. 

Then the kisses trailed over to his mouth, and he pressed his tongue in Daken’s. Daken recuperated in the wet kiss and wrapped an arm around his neck. They panted against each other—into each other.

After Lester pulled away, he cut him more. Over his throat, his collarbone, down his sides. He scratched him for the hell of it. Bit at the insides of his thighs, clawed at the delicate flesh behind his ankles. Appreciated the sinew of muscle but not as much as all the possibilities that came with fucking someone with a healing factor again. 

He sat back after Daken had healed and tossed away his razor. His fingers were dark red. He put both hands on Daken’s knees and bared them back against his chest, and stared down at his body. Pushing two fingers between his lips, he made him suck. The blood cleared from his hands. Then he shoved them both inside Daken, taking time to appreciate the stretch of a tightened hole around his fingers. 

Daken keened. He threw his head back and made a noise that was inevitably for show in the back of his throat. He hooked both arms under his knees and pulled back, spreading his legs, showing off. He whispered to Lester to eat him out, and Lester did.

He licked over him first and Daken smiled to himself, took in a shuddering breath. He released a hot puff of pheromones, and Lester growled and bit into his thigh hard enough to break skin. The blood trickled down his legs and he lapped at that instead, like Daken had rolled over and offered his belly. 

He strained against the sheets bunched at the mattress, and lowered his hips for friction while he watched Daken heal, panting over his cock. He licked over him again, then pressed his tongue in. He pulled out a moment after and focused on biting at the joint at his thigh and the V of his hips.

He could feel Daken’s impatience even before he huffed and spread his legs impossibly wider. Bullseye grinned over the power he held on Daken and climbed up his body. He let his cockhead nudge against his hole dry. Their lips caught in a bruising kiss, and Bullseye bit his bottom lip. The flesh split. He lapped at his blood and smeared the red on his teeth. His smile paled against the grey city reflection.

This only prompted another kiss from Daken.

Somehow, they ended with positions switched. Daken sat on Lester’s hips, leaned over him and made out with him fiercely. He was touching him again, everywhere. His dick swelled and dripped and Daken ran his thumb over the slit.

Then he sank himself down on it. Lester groaned and grabbed his hips. He eased Daken into him and ground up. He was gentler than the last time. He waited. Daken adjusted quickly, which only reinforced his place as a desirable lover.

(Lester had him. Lester had this beautiful creature who could have anyone. He wondered if Daken privately laughed to himself after all of this. If he ignored it. If this was just a good fuck for him. Well, that was fine.  _Daken_  approached  _Lester_ every time, and somehow that was reassuring in this twisted exchange. Maybe Daken acted like he was drawing the circle around Lester, laying claim, but frankly: Lester didn’t care. A hole was a hole, and this one belonged to a particularly handsome mutant. So what?)

Daken moved. His thighs clenched while he rose up, then he came back down, his ass tightening on Lester’s hardness. Lester made a pathetic noise and wet his lips. 

Daken rode him, making a show of it. His abs and muscles clenched and Lester dug his nails into the curve of his collarbone. He ripped his flesh and sucked up the rivulet of blood.

The claws slid free, and yes, that’s what he wanted. Daken pressed his palms on either side of Lester’s head and grazed the point of the left one over his temple while riding him, rolling his hips and flexing like he was a goddamn pornstar. 

Lester hit his prostrate, and Daken panted, rubbed his aching cock over his belly in a desperate search for friction. A hand went behind to touch his already filled hole. It slid over his hips and he thumbed at his cock, drew a finger over the strained vein at the underside of his dick. He smeared the pre-cum over his organ.

This went on for a few minutes until Daken came silently over his abs. Lester wound his fingers in his hair and almost broke his neck pulling his head back to suck a bruise into his Adam’s apple. 

Daken licked his ear and whined his adopted villain name and Lester came inside of him, sticky and surging. His hip stuttered the same as his breath. His dick was still thick as he pulled out of him.

Lifting himself off of Bullseye, Daken rolled over and lay with his chest to the sheets, his hips raised. Bullseye went behind him and pushed a finger into him, smearing his own cum over his hole. He lay his cheek on the small of his back and pressed gently at his insides, crooked his fingers to touch his prostrate, and Daken rocked back against him. His tattooed hand went to rub himself off. His claws were still out, and Lester didn’t question it. 

Lester twisted his finger, and added another. He thrust his hands in earnest, fucking into Daken the same if it’d been his cock.

Daken came again, on his sheets. He buried his face in Lester’s pillow and panted. His legs fell open and his hips dropped against the mattress, spent.

Bullseye fell next to him and collected him in his arms. 

They dozed.

* * *

In the mid-afternoon, where the wind carried fog from the Atlantic down the streets of New York, reaching like tendrils, Bullseye woke up first. He didn’t stir from his spot. He nipped at Daken’s lobe and stared at his sleeping face. The dips of his cheekbones seemed more hollowed. His lips parted. His brows relaxed. He looked young. 

It would be a pleasure to hurt him more. Sex did not scare Lester. He knew that Daken was trying to be an insightful shit about all of this, the same he was with everything. He wanted to understand himself, he wanted to speculate on all the little idiosyncrasies, the reasoning of relationships. Well, he probably had the time to. But Lester knew this: Daken was weaving his own question. Lester could sit back and relax and invite him in. 

 _You think you’re winning something,_  Lester thought, drawing his fingers over his cheekbone.  _You’re not sure, though, are you? But you want to know—well, you’re not. This is sex. It’s leverage. We’re something. And it doesn’t scare me one bit. I don’t need to understand relationships. This was crafted from force of proximity._ You _come to_ me. 

Daken stirred. He looked up and frowned at Lester. He sniffed, read his intention, and pulled his lips back in a snarl that more suited Lester.  _We are not an item_  he seemed to say. 

Lester rose his eyebrows and leaned forward to grip his chin. He kissed him. 

And maybe it was the medication calming them both down. Maybe Lester never really cared about anything outside of missions and his well-being and daredevil. He would kill everyone one day. But those he couldn’t—Daken and Wade—he would collect. He would upset them.

You aren’t the only one who can play games, he insinuated with a smirk, brushing his knuckles against the back of Daken’s neck. Daken eased into the bed. He looked at him, and called him a dumbass. A dumbass who didn’t know what do with his life besides draw blood. His fascination was base.

In Japanese, in Daken’s language, Lester whispered into his neck.

“ _The common soldier’s blood makes the general great_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've often encountered the pieces of fiction that depict Bullseye as an irrationally angry character infuriated by the prospect of sex with Daken. And I love every bit of that analysis on him. Unfortunately, I'm not super at writing that persona. So let's back-track to early 70's Bullseye personality because... Because I can do that.


End file.
